May 17,2026
BLOG 160

HOW MUCH IS ENOUGH?

“…does our encounter with the rich mystery of life repeatedly call upon us to reframe our understanding of self and world? If it does not, I submit that we are less linked to certainty than stuck in constriction, locked into an emotionally contained, imaginatively stunted partial view.”

(James Hollis Living an Examined Life)

My reason for coming to Europe was very much to liberate myself from a potentially “constricting, emotionally contained and imaginatively stunted” POV. But, with a steady flow of novel stimuli it’s been hard finding time to marshall my thoughts, let alone formulate them into a semi-coherent blog. By the end of this trip we will have stayed in four different places, or five if you count the second time in Paris, after visiting two very different towns in the southwest of the country. Or somewhere else. Each change creates a kind of jet lag wherein my psyche, the part of me that relies on a sense of structure and security, has to begin again. Simple questions become the order of the day: “where is the bathroom?” in the pitch dark of night, or “on which side of the bed do I even sleep?” Or “where did I pack my refrigerated prescriptions that require refrigeration?” Yes, I have meds that need a consistently cool temperature. And God forbid I should leave something essential behind somewhere, bad enough that I lost track of my favorite pajamas somewhere along the way.

Much to feed a compulsive worrier.

And all threat of the latter confusion became a powerful saboteur when I contemplated going away in the first place.

I can attest that certain habits are what keep me grounded, calm, centered; if I do my mantra practice every morning I feel more centered than on transition days when it gets missed in service of catching trains, planes or automobiles. Missing a physical habit, such as my “daily” swim, also takes a toll. Familiar faces/physical places offer reminders of who I think I am, at least in those specific contexts. In other words, in travel, being “out of my depth” or “in over my head” takes on a very tangible reality. A reality I am currently facing as I begin a new day in yet another unfamiliar place.

I remember seeing the expression of near panic on the face of our then thirteen year old son as he burst into the arrivals hall at YVR after going on a youth theatre exchange to Japan. I watched the relief flood his face as he took in the familiar setting and his eagerly waiting family. “They eat fish for breakfast!” was one of the first things out of his astonished mouth.

At times a part of me also yearns for that relief of familiarity, ie. my “blankie”, which makes it that much more important to have invited a change of scenery into my peaceful, well-regulated (aka rut of a) life. Yet I know if I were to instantly teleport myself back to Vancouver, I’d soon wake up with that nagging feeling that something is missing. With the restlessness that suggests there’s more to be done, more to explore in my one precious life, as Mary Oliver wrote. Or, as Hollis put it:

“…were there no psychopathology, no restlessness of the soul, why would we ever question these received, limited, fractal frames?” In simpler terms, why question our comfort zone?

And he continues with…

“Yes, we know that having to reframe our concepts, practices, understandings, and even values generates anxiety, but a mature spiritual position will oblige us to tolerate more anxiety than we wish. An authentic journey will ask us to embrace contradictions, suffer ambiguity, and not fall into either-or thinking, which is so characteristic of the immature or the frightened mind. A mature spirituality will be one in which we encounter more mystery than is comfortable. After all, the things we can understand, tolerate, fixate in concepts are surely not the mystery. The mystery will always transcend our desires for clarity and certainty. But how much of that can we tolerate?”

As I write, I watch the ebbing tide reveal the banks of oyster beds that carpet the floor of the Bay of Biscaye. The tidal swings here are so extreme that the water begins by lapping against the retaining wall of our hotel and then receding to expose a vast stretch of sand much greater than low tide on Vancouver’s Spanish Banks. As the beach expands it becomes dotted with day-trippers primed with buckets and shovels, prospecting for clams or whatever treasures are otherwise submerged for hours at a time.

Is this what Hollis is getting at when he suggests that we delve deeper into the rich mystery of life, perhaps to discover our true purpose on earth?

Today’s tidal choreography speaks to my question of how much exposure to this “mystery” can one tolerate? It suggests a time of reaping from the sea of consciousness, the ebb tide, and the equally important “flood” tide of rest, of integration, letting things evolve in the unseen, as do the oyster cultivators leave their small charges to spawn and grow undisturbed in the nutrient-rich mud at the bottom of the sea.

With that in mind, it’s time for this little oyster to burrow under the covers and hope my dreams produce pearls of insight and inspiration. Or simply a solid eight hours sleep!

Bon nuit!